


I'll Keep Them Still

by fill_empty_space_here



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Denial, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, I'm Sorry, I'm very sorry, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fill_empty_space_here/pseuds/fill_empty_space_here
Summary: Sean looked at him straight in the eyes. The deep, motherfucking brown eyes that made Sean want to pour out every single threat he had to kill himself and crumple up like a ball, crying. Mark’s eyes were wide with worry, and Sean didn't want to believe that someone worried over him. He didn't deserve to have others worried about him.“I hope it gets better. Believe me, it will. It might not seem like it, but it will, okay? And I'll always be here for you, if you need someone to speak to. Bye, Sean.”-----(Previously namedBinge)





	1. Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Heh, sorry dude, you clicked on the wrong story. If you were expecting quality, you won't find it here.
> 
> 10/31/17- This work has been heavily edited for flow and structure, though, it is nothing worth re-reading it for. Have a problem? Take it up with my secretary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been edited for flow

Hard whiskey was just the thing to clear his mind. It didn't matter that he hadn't done anything productive in the last few days. He didn't have the energy to do all that either way.

Seán walked towards the fridge in his kitchen, losing his balance more than once. He threw open the door and scanned the contents of his fridge. _Empty_ , he thought bitterly as he pushed past an empty gallon of milk to snatch up a bottle of Jack Daniels. As he unscrewed the bottle and shut the door, a small wave of nausea washed over him. When was the last time he ate a solid, full meal? Seán couldn't even remember.

“I guess yer my best friend now, Jack,” he tossed the cap over his shoulder. “I love you. You make my life funner.” Seán smiled weakly as he brought the bottle to his lips. A sense of satisfaction came with the burning feeling of whiskey going down his throat.

He sat heavily down on his couch. Seán glanced quickly to the phone on his coffee table. “No notifications. Nice. I'm losing all my friends.” He quickly shrugged, “Still got you, right, Jack? Did you know everyone thinks I've got your name?” He paused. “I know, stupid, right?”

The bottle seemed to murmur, _A stupid name for a stupid guy that no one even likes._

“So, what? You don't know me, Jack!” Seán seethed. He quickly drank down the rest of the whiskey as if it was everything he wanted to get rid of. “You—you don't know me…”

Seán went silent. There it was. The unwanted train of thought came rolling back in.

_Look at you—you worthless piece of crap. You’ve lost all your friends. None of them want to talk to you. They all hate you. And why shouldn't they? You're pathetic and stupid, not to mention annoying. You’re unattractive and make everyone want to puke. No one loves you, and you'll die alone. You’re fucking retarded to think anything otherwise, and you're stupid enough already. It makes everyone pity you and laugh at your naïvety. You’re weak for doing this kind of crap. You have no reason to. You’re ungrateful, worthless, and you deserve to fucking die. No one would miss you. Everyone already wishes you were gone._

Seán growled. They were stating the truth. There was so little of his ego the voices were shattering. It didn't help he had a killer headache. He hated when people told him everything he hated about himself. Seán already had enough of it from comments on the internet; he didn't need someone telling him it in _real life_.

“Shut up,” he gripped at the bottle, wishing it was someone real, someone like himself. The person he hated so much. The one person in the world who didn't seem to fit, or who wasn't worth the time, energy, and space.

_Just kill yourself. No one cares about you anyways._

“Shut _up_ ,” he ordered.

_That's right… Crumple like the motherfucking cunt you really are. You don't deserve what you have. You aren't a hero, you aren't funny, you aren't cool, and you aren't nice. You don't deserve being famous. You don't deserve to live._

“I said _shut up!_ ” he raised his arm. Quickly and without thought, he threw the bottle of Jack against a wall facing Seán—just a few feet away.

The noise was quick, but Seán was left fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. He wasn't sure why; maybe it was because he hadn't proved the voices wrong or because he believed them more than he believed real people. Regardless, Seán scowled to himself and fought the stream of hot tears that were already peeking from the corners of his eyes.

Seán sighed, his head spinning. “Sorry, Jack, better luck next time,” he took note of the shards of glass from his earlier cases of blind rage but ignored them. This had happened before. Practically every day, he was left hating himself for things out of his control—like the thoughts that haunted him day and night; the voices without a pause. He hated his sensitivity. Despite the war in his head, he stood up, grabbing his phone and stuffed it into his pocket as if nothing was wrong. “I guess I really _have_ lost all my friends.”

Seán stood up, rather too quickly and, consequently, had to take a few seconds to stop the room from spinning. He drunkenly walked up the stairs—almost falling off a few times—and into the restroom. He shut the door and sighed pathetically. He just wasn't in it to do anything. So why should he keep going?

He wondered why he still hasn't ended his life. There was no use either way; whether he was well-liked or not. His career was sure to fail on him at some point, his girlfriend had dumped him for a complex reason—she had said, “We never really get to see each other, but don't worry, you’ll find someone someday!”—his friends didn't like him because he was an annoying, crappy human being, and it wasn't like his fans would miss him. They only found him “funny” because of his stupidity, and they could easily find someone better than him. Supposedly everyone was better than him.

His family was another thing, but then again, they had never liked him. He was nothing but a disappointment to his parents, being the runt of the family with no worthy achievements. His parents always hated him, he thought, because he was useless.

Seán looked down to his sink, his hands holding him up from their place on the sides of the porcelain rim. “Should I…?”

Seán wasn't one to do this. God, he wasn't. It just seemed so tempting, so he had found his way to do it.

Slowly, he reached into his cabinet and pulled out the sharp, metal blade. He pulled his sleeves up, and stared down at the few lines already marked on his pale, white skin.

If anyone would have asked, he would have lied between his teeth. If anyone wanted to do it, he would be a hypocrite and say it wasn't necessary, and that they had so much to look forward to.

_**“Pathetic.”** _

_**“Worthless.”** _

_Maybe I shouldn't do this. No one likes a downer anyways. Much less a hypocrite._

_**“Lame.”** _

_**“Loser.”** _

_But it’s not like anyone would find out, right? I’ll just hide the scars. I mean, I live alone, and I don't really go around town flaunting my arms._

_**“Stupid.”** _

_**“Who even likes him?”** _

_Plus, it’s not like any human cares. There are plenty of people who do this. I'm just another number._

_**“Loud and annoying.”** _

_**“Ugly as fuck.”** _

_No one likes me anyways. They all say so. I'm just a stupid piece of shit. No one cares._

_**“Fat.”** _

_**“Cunt.”** _

_Maybe this is necessary._

_**“Pussy.”** _

_**“Coward.”** _

_Just do it._

Seán pushed the edge of the metal blade across the skin on his arm, dragging it down and watching the red that trailed behind.

Now he knew what those quotes meant.

_"I paint with gray and it comes out red.  
Magic."_

His arm had the widest gash he’d seen so far. It was a complete open wound, gushing out blood he didn't even know he had. He couldn't help the sting that came with it, and how the string of curses came from his mouth with no remorse.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” he told no one. He imagined what would happen if someone found out, seeing the gash on his arm, watching him shut his teary eyes.

_There isn't gonna be a knight in shining armor, Seán. Don't be any more stupid than you already are._

Seán didn't dare look anymore. It was too much, and it disgusted him. The blood just rushed out, being released from the skin it'd been trapped in. He didn't dare cover it.

Yet, he ended up pressing against it with his sleeve, hoping it would stop. It was just too much. But it was never enough.

He was never enough.

He was nothing.

He didn't matter.

Why wasn't he dead yet?

_Ah, so close._

Seán pressed his wound against the side of his body, exhaling air that he didn't know he was holding back. He ruffled his hair with his right hand, the one that wasn't bleeding, and snatched up the blade. Instead of the actions he was once doing, he tossed the metal tool into the trash can with no intention of slitting his wrist again.

His arm stung like a bitch. It hurt, but he was sure he would see worse one day.

Seán turned to the door, slowly walking out of the restroom with his arm still pressed tightly against his side.

He took a few steps at a time, pausing when a particular pressure on his head came by or when his body leaned too far to one side. After regaining his composure, he took another couple of steps before repeating his cycle. Eventually, he made his way into his room.

“No—no use whining about i—it.”

He began starting up his equipment, and while he waited for his computer to completely turn on, Seán looked towards a mirror.

He didn't recognize who he saw in the mirror anymore. Seán used to see a guy who had his life together, with lively hair and bright smiles and sharp eyes. Now, all he saw was hair that faded to match his mood, blue eyes that seemed to cloud at every glance, and a frown permanently etched on his skin.

Seán cleared his throat, chose a random game he had pre downloaded, and smiled for the camera.

_3… 2… 1…_

He high-fived the camera. “… Top of the mornin' to ya laddies! My name is Jacksepticeye and…”

He huffed, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead.

Seán tried again. With a weaker smile and an even weaker high-five, he said, “‘Top of the mornin’ to ya laddies! My name is Jacksepticeye and welcome to…”

He couldn't breathe correctly, he knew.

“… And welcome to… The… The…”

Suddenly, everything went dark for Seán.


	2. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Awkward encounters with fans can do that to ya. But, to answer yer question… Yes. It might be fun. I could show ya ‘round.”
> 
>  _It also might make me excited to get up in the morning for once, or make me stop drinking so much and eat, and sleep on the right schedule. Or maybe,_ just _maybe, might make happy again._
> 
> _You don't deserve happiness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been edited for no absolute reason.

It seemed like no time had passed when he could finally see clearly. His head was against his keyboard, and his recording was still playing—miraculously. After taking a glance at the time, he realized it had actually been a few 7 minutes since he was last awake.

He stared at his keyboard, puzzled. He wasn't sure what had just happened. Had he passed out?

_Yeah, yeah, that’s believable. But from what? I haven't eaten in… God knows how long. That might be it. Or maybe I drank too much. Or lack of sleep. I haven't slept since yesterday morning… Or what if it was the blood? Maybe stress? Not sure. Jesus, I’m a fucking mess._

Seán flinched. What if he had accidentally posted that video? People would realize something was wrong and ask. People would visit him and eventually find out about what’s happening. He wasn't sure how anyone would react. Seán’s scenarios were mostly negative.

He glanced at his arm, quickly realizing it couldn't be moved with ease due to the dried blood attached to his clothes. After freeing it, the Irishman decided it was best to take a break. _Maybe eat._

_Hold up, I'm not gonna eat! I can't eat. What am I talking about? I've eaten enough… Coffee, beer, and a chocolate bar. That's more than enough, right? Yeah, that's enough._

His thoughts came to a stop when he heard a familiar ring coming from his phone. Without thinking twice, he answered it.

Mark Fischbach, otherwise known as Markiplier, appeared on-screen, a small smile on his face.

“Hey! Jack!” a baritone voice said rather happily. It quickly went lower in pitch to say, “Oh, you're not looking so good.”

“Just lacking sleep. Don't worry ‘bout it.” He scowled internally at himself. Why was it so hard to admit how he actually felt?

_Because it's not necessary and because no one wants to deal with my fucking problems. No one cares._

“You sure?” Mark asked, and Jack instantly nodded.

“I’m sure,” he gave his camera smile. “Now, why’d ya call me? It seems important.”

“Oh, can't a guy just call his buddy without being questioned for his motives?” Mark replied. He added on, “I _did_ want to check if you were alive, seeming you haven't been posting or answering anyone’s texts——”

_Wait, what?_

“What texts?”

“Yeah, everyone’s been worried sick about you. Your fans have asked where you've been and making up crazy conspiracies for your disappearance. Even Signe asked if you were okay. She asked me if you've talked to me. I asked literally anyone and everyone if they'd heard of you, but it came up short. I was——I mean, everyone was really freaked out.”

 _People had worried about me? That's weird. Must be an exaggeration that Mark made up to try to make me feel better. Or just a trick of the ears. Maybe I'm just dreaming. But,_ Seán pinched his skin, _I can't wake up._

“But I do have another reason.”

 _There it is. What—you think Mark actually wanted to talk to someone like_ you? _Yeah, keep dreaming._

“Hm? And what's that?” Seán answered, raising an eyebrow to show his curiosity, which wasn't that much considering how Mark wasn't really interested in talking to Seán either way. Why give the effort to something that will never change?

“So, you know how, um, your birthday’s in a bit, right?”

“The day once a year we celebrate for not havin’ died—yes, ‘m quite aware,” Seán replied sarcastically.

_The day others celebrate for how closer you are to your death._

“Yeah, well, I was wondering if you'd like some company in Ireland, you know? I know how it feels to get lonely, but I’ve got people around my place, and… you don't. Plus, we can catch up! I know we haven't spoken in a long while, so it might be fun.” Mark ran his hands through his hair and shrugged. “If not, then that's fine, you know, um, I could just send you a greeting through the internet if you aren’t busy on your big B-Day.”

“Oh, wow,” Seán placed a hand against his chest in mock admiration, “I haven't ‘eard that kind of awkward invitation since my cousin invited me over t’her prom.”

Mark laughed. It was light, but it left Seán smiling back. The American quickly said, “Well, what can I say? I've practiced.”

“Awkward encounters with fans can do that to ya. But, to answer yer question… Yes. It might be fun. I could show ya ‘round.”

 _It also might make me excited to get up in the morning for once, or make me stop drinking so much and eat, and sleep on the right schedule. Or maybe,_ just _maybe, might make happy again._

_You don't deserve happiness._

Mark grinned, “Thanks, Jack.”

“No, thank you, I'm glad ya've tolerated me, even when I wasn't the _greatest_ person ever. Yer a great friend,” Seán smiled.

Mark smiled again, “So are you, Jack.” Seán heard someone’s voice in the background, and Mark glanced up from the phone. “Oh, I’ve gotta go, Jack. I’ll text you, alright? Be safe, and, um…”

Seán looked at him straight in the eyes. The deep, motherfucking brown eyes that made Seán want to pour out every single threat he had to kill himself and crumple up like a ball, crying. Mark’s eyes were wide with worry, and Seán didn't want to believe that someone worried over him. He didn't deserve to have others worried about him.

“I hope it gets better. Believe me, it will. It might not seem like it, but it will, okay? And I'll always be here for you if you need someone to speak to. Bye, Seán.”

The phone went to his home screen, but he tossed it aside.

Seán groaned in his seat. “When’s my birthday again? I don't even know. I need a fuckin’ drink.”

_Yeah, go drink more like the stupid bitch you really are. In fact, go jump off a bridge._

Seán ignored the negative remarks that swam through his head, running his hands through his green hair. He then stood up, making his way downstairs to pass out drunk on the couch again. But at least when he’s passed out, he won't have to hear his own thoughts.


	3. Visiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opened the door to find a batch of balloons and a grinning American in red flannel and jeans. Seán couldn't help but smile back, albeit weakly.
> 
> _He got you balloons. You don't deserve balloons. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone. Just die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter was edited just cause.

The weeks passed by quickly. As soon as Seán knew it, it was February 5th already—when Mark had planned to come by to celebrate early, then leave on the 13th—and the Irishman had made no progress whatsoever. He was still in his “slump”, and his house had paid the price. It was uncharacteristically dirty—clothes on the floor, broken bottles still in heaps in random corners, his bedroom strangely clean (normally it wasn't), and kitchen practically empty. _It was pathetic._

He was sleeping on the couch when he heard someone trying to buzz in, and he had to get up from his comfortable spot on the couch to let them up. Seán quickly realized that his house was in a mess, and wondered what his American friend would react with.

_What if he just leaves?_

_He probably will. Why would he want to stay with someone like you? There are plenty of people who are so much better than you, who deserve attention, and deserve all the shit that you, surprisingly, have. Then again, no one likes you. So you're just being a burden on everyone, even Mark._

Soon after collapsing back on the couch, Mark had knocked on the door. Seán stood up for the second time and opened the door.

He opened the door to find a batch of balloons and a grinning American in red flannel and jeans. Seán couldn't help but smile back, albeit weakly.

_He got you balloons. You don't deserve balloons. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone. Just die._

“Happy early birthday, Seán!” he extended his arms, still smiling.

Seán smiled back, feeling as if he needed to, if he wanted to keep his charade going. “Why all the balloons?”

The YouTuber shrugged, arms falling back down to his sides, glancing at Seán and back to the balloons. “They only seemed necessary.”

“Thanks, Mark,” he grabbed the balloons from him and tied them to a lamp, then grabbed Mark’s luggage with most of his strength. _Since when had I become so weak?_ “It must ‘ave been a lot of trouble t’fly over ‘ere just for me birthday.”

“Jack, are you drunk?”

He froze. His hands twitched around the suitcases’ handles, and he suddenly felt the weight of the contents inside as if they were the entire world.

Seán turned to him, rolling his eyes. “The Irish are always drunk, Mark. ‘s a shame you can't join us.”

The pale Irishman spun back around, sighing quietly so Mark couldn't hear and led the American to the guest room—which he was glad he found clean.

“No, Jack, I’m serious,” Mark said from behind him, his voice dropping several pitches from it’s usual carefree and comedic style. “Have you even eaten in a while?”

Seán blinked as he set his guest’s luggage on the floor beside his bed. He turned to him, “Yeah, I’ve eaten,” he lied between his teeth, “why’s it matter t’you?”

“Because you look weak, Jack. Come on, I'm worried.”

“‘m not weak. I’m completely fine.” he glared slightly. _I would know if I needed help. I don't need help. I don't even deserve it._

“When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning,” Seán answered quickly, not thinking twice of the words that came out his mouth.

“What did you eat?” his friend spat just as fast, not missing a beat.

“Eggs, toast, and cereal.”

_You're so stupid. Lying won't get you anywhere._

“You’re lying,” Mark said, his gaze piercing into Seán’s eyes.

_See? He found out anyways. You aren't smart enough to get away with this. Someone was bound to figure this out eventually. You're fucking dumb. Now you’ll lose your closest friend._

_He's not even your friend. He only pities your existence. It's not like he cares._

Seán’s heart sped up at the last thought. It scared him to think that his idol, and the guy he cared about so much wouldn't even attend his funeral. _But it was the truth._ “No, ‘m not.”

“So, if I go check, you’ll have food downstairs?” Mark pointed behind him with his thumb. He seemed ready to check it out; stepping backwards towards the exit.

“Mark, please, stop,” Seán squeaked, grabbing his friend’s arm to prevent any search of his kitchen. He shook his head, trying to sound brave, or at _least believable_. “Did ya come ‘ere to spend time wi’ me or just question me?”

Mark faltered, seeming to think over his next actions. After a few moments, he pursed his lips and said hesitantly, “Fine. Do you have anything planned?”

“I never do anything on my birthday, so no. But I can show you around Athlone, but there’s not much but castles and outdoorsy stuff. Normally,” _I make videos, drink and stare out a window._ “I just make videos, play video games, and watch the telly.”

“Ugh, yeah, the last one sounds good. I didn't know if you wanted to do anything, so I didn't want to tell you, but I've got serious jet lag and I'm super fucking tired.”

Seán understood, nodding. “I get that. You should go t’sleep. I got to record some videos anyways, so I’ll do it while yer passed out.”

“Okay, yeah, sounds good,” Mark nodded. “I’ll see you when my body wakes up.”

The younger one nodded. “Okay.” But before he could turn around to leave, he saw Mark lean closer and embrace him in a hug.

“Wha—Mark? Dude,” Seán muttered as he felt Mark’s arms lock him in a tight grip. He couldn't move his arms, and was afraid he’ll lose his breath.

“That was meant for earlier,” Mark answered from near Seán’s ear.

The Irishman sighed, burying his face into the American’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he gave a small smile, feeling his chest swell at the thought of being in the arms of Mark. Seán suddenly didn't want to let go, and he thought of maybe just living the rest of his life just like this, with Mark.

_That's not going to happen. Don't be so dumb, Seán. Mark doesn't like you. He can't stand you and your annoying voice, and he wants you dead. Do you think anyone could fucking stand you? Look at you, you're a worthless piece of shit. You don't even deserve Mark. Mark doesn't deserve to have to deal with your stupid, annoying voice and complaints. Just fucking kill yourself._

Seán pushed him away, looking at the ground. “See you later.” Seán quickly left him alone and went downstairs, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and downing most of it in one chug.

_How could I be so stupid? He doesn't care for me. No one could love me. I ruin everything. I should just die._

That afternoon, as Mark was still asleep and the house was quiet, Seán grabbed a knife from the kitchen and brought it into the restroom, bottle of beer in hand.

Standing in front of the mirror, Seán reviewed the features on his face; his pale skin, thin cheeks from lack of food, sunken eyes from no sleep, and the lack of tears in his eyes. _What’s wrong with me?_

He felt so hollow… So empty. He felt as if he could never feel emotion again. The lingering memory of happiness made Seán nostalgic. It mocked him; it was the worst insult to injury. It was the memory of smiling and laughing, and the realization that _I can't even remember when that was. What if I can never feel like that again?_ Then, he remembered all the stupid things he’s done, how no one liked him, and all the mean comments from his videos saying everything he hated about himself.

Seán gripped at the handle of the knife, the sharp edge hovering over his skin and open wounds. He looked away as a familiar sting of the metal scraped across his arm, tauntingly close to his vein and just as deep as the ones from before.

As blood poured down his fresh wound, Seán imagined Mark walking in on him with his arms bleeding. He imagined Mark scolding him for resorting to such stupid methods. He imagined the American being disgusted with Seán, claiming him to just be doing his self-mutilating methods for attention, and leaving him to rot in his home alone. A small part of him imagined Mark loving him the same, caring for him, but it was quickly overwhelmed with the negative scenarios. _Just like it has been for a long time. No positivity. I don't even deserve to hope for the better. I never have._


	4. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark couldn't help but to stare, noticing the Irish’s features—from his dark green hair, his jacket, and to the guy’s ripped jeans. He looked happy, and Mark didn't know why, but that made _him_ happy.
> 
> The American also noted how the guy hadn't even opened his can of beer, and that was what made him grin ear to ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been heavily edited due to, well, personal annoyance. The whole game problem has sorta been solved, although, I wish I actually knew (meaning knowing how to describe it correctly) more split screen games because choosing Rocket League is honestly pretty lame of me. But it's something people could probably be familiar of (since Mark and Jack actually played it), so… meh.

Seán was found staring blankly at the TV when Mark had woken up. It worried the American, more than anything, that there was nothing on the screen. It was the Irish’s blank expression and bottle in hand that made Mark ask, “Hey, you okay?”

“‘m okay.” Mark noted his speech slurred together, and how he didn't even bother to look him in the eye. The American frowned, wondering what was causing his friend to act like this.

He didn't press for answers, and sat beside him. “So, what do you want to do first?”

Mark’s buddy glanced to him, presumably thinking. He answered, “Wanna play a game?”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Video game or, like, spin the bottle? I'm okay with both, honestly, although it wouldn't make sense with only two people, but two’s a party… Is that a saying?”

A smile.

_Oh, thank God. I never would have thought I would see such a wonderful smile ever again._

“A video game, ya goof,” he chuckled, pushing him with his shoulder.

Mark chuckled along, scratching behind his neck with a sheepish grin. _Okay, this was progress._ “Yeah, sure. Whatever you choose, man.”

Seán nodded. “Alright. Um, we can get a multiplayer game, like…” he paused. “Uh, Rocket League is cool. Kinda. Sort of.”

“Ah, back in the day,” Mark said. Seán simply rolled his eyes. “You don't have to get up, I’ll start up the game.” With that, he stood, grabbing the two controllers and turning on both the console and TV.

“Can you also get me a beer from the fridge? I’ll add the account, I guess,” Seán asked, so low that Mark almost didn't hear him.

He smiled and nodded regardless. “Sure, Jack,” Mark passed him the controller and tossed the other in the empty seat that he had once taken.

The American walked to the kitchen, noticing how dirty the floors were. He wondered if Seán had bothered to get up the last few days. It made him frown, thinking how his once-energetic friend could be struggling with something so serious that it caused him to not want to get up in the morning. Muttering to himself that he wanted Seán to get better, Mark opened the fridge. He quickly noticed the huge stash of alcohol and pills, yet no food. He glanced back to the doorway leading to the living room, wishing he could see through the walls and just _see_ Seán’s pain, and thought that maybe _then_ he’ll have a reason to hug him tightly and care for him so much.

_He lied to me… There is no food in here._

Before his friend could notice, he grabbed a can of beer from the very back and closed the fridge door. He set the alcohol on the counter, opening a pantry quietly. He met eye to eye with plates and cups, then closed the door. Mark opened the other one, hoping for food. There, he found practically nothing but sugar, spices Seán practically never used, coffee beans, and some weird pack of Japanese noodles that looked as old as the apartment.

“Merk, hurry up in there, the game’s starting, ya dick,” Jack chuckled from his place on the couch.

_How could he laugh knowing he hasn't eaten properly in days, maybe even weeks? I wish he would just tell me what’s going on with him._

“I’m going!” Mark yelled back. He closed the cabinet as quietly as he possibly could, then grabbed Seán’s beer and walked back to his friend.

He sat beside him, handing him the beer can as he grabbed the controller from his seat. _Talk about it. Talk about it._

The game loaded up and Seán was sitting beside Mark quietly, yet Mark couldn't bring himself to ask why he would lie to him. What if Seán gets upset because he asks? Why would he want to make one of his closest friends angry at him?

Before he could make up his mind though, the game was connecting to other players, and Mark and Seán had to steadily keep up with the ball. Curses were said, controllers were beaten, and Mark was yelling more often than not. In his defense, another player kept stealing the ball away every time he wanted to score a goal, which was worthy of Mark sticking up his middle finger.

They ended up losing, to Mark’s complaints, and Seán simply laughed at his behavior. Which prompted for Mark to continue complaining.

While another match was beginning, Mark smiled, glancing beside him to his buddy. In the dark room, the TV illuminated Seán’s friendly, wide smile, his squinted, bright eyes, and laugh escaping his thin, but dry lips. Mark couldn't help but to stare, noticing the Irish’s features—from his dark green hair, his jacket, and to the guy’s ripped jeans. He looked happy, and Mark didn't know why, but that made _him_ happy.

The American also noted how the guy hadn't even opened his can of beer, and that was what made him grin ear to ear.

“Mark, get yer head outta yer ass and play, Goddamn it!” Seán yelled, and Mark snapped out of his gaze to realize the game has already started and the ball was already near their goal. The American had to drive right by the goal, just to end up missing right below the ball.

Seán laughed loudly, and Mark was tempted to look at his grin once again. But Mark remembered that his smile wouldn't last forever, and Mark still had to have a little chat with him. 

_If he's happy now, I’ll just talk about it later._

The match ended quickly. The other team ended up cutting off connection, and Mark and Seán were laughing hard when Mark made fun of them.

Seán laughed loudly beside him. “I wonder if we should ‘ave recorded this,” he grinned, calming his laughter. He looked to Mark. “Or livestreamed.”

Mark shook his head, a grin still visible on his lips, “This game would have never ended. People would just keep logging on.” Seán agreed with another laugh.

Mark chuckled again, not knowing why. _When he laughs, I’ll laugh._

“Oh, God, it’s gettin’ late,” Seán said, glancing at a clock.

Mark nodded, blinking slowly as he let the statement sink in. An idea popped lazily into his head, and he asked, “You wanna watch a movie?”

His Irish comrade nodded, “Yeah! Sleep is for the _weak!_ ” he gave a small smile, “Let’s set up a movie night.”

Mark nodded, heading for the guest room and taking a bundle of blankets. He came back and spread them over his buddy, then chose a random movie from Seán’s set and popped it in. He sat beside his friend, admiring the feeling of their bodies close together, and watched as the random movie he had chosen began to play.


	5. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seán woke up late at night. The room was cloudy and gloomy, and it had contrasted how his house actually looked like. His eyes fully opened, taking in the scene. There, he sat alone on the couch. No inviting arms around him; no warmth to comfort him from the cold that resided deep in his bones. He was just heart-breakingly, mind-wrenchingly alone.
> 
> The TV was on, inviting Seán with a gray static that he stared at, mesmerized. It called his name, but he tuned it out to focus on the small shapes the screen created.
> 
> _Seán…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been edited for structure.

Seán admired the quiet murmur of the TV as he shut his eyes and leaned his head back. It sounded like static forming words, whispering nonsense to him as his eyelids got heavier and heavier. Soon enough, he felt a small tug on his waist, where an arm now lay loosely around it. The Irishman quickly realized who’s arm that belonged to, and lay his focus on Mark’s limb. Then, he felt his own body leaning slightly to the side, almost involuntary, and his head now on a plush surface.

He shifted, a small exhale coming with it, and a small wave of confidence washing over him as he moved his legs to the side and his head comfortably on Mark’s chest and arm.

_What the fuck are you doing? You're not allowed to do this. You think he likes you? You think he wants you to do this? Of course he doesn't. What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop touching him._

Mark let out a small gasp, and Seán thought of moving again; his confidence quickly fading into regret. It quickly disappeared as Mark, who was still seated in an angle that faced Seán more than the TV, let his hand wander higher up the Irish’s waist. It caused the blue-eyed man to smile silently, shutting his eyes and sighing in serenity.

_If he’s not sleeping, then why is he still sitting with me? He could ditch me on the couch, or “wake me up” and make me go to my bed. But, no… He’s_ letting _me do this. What’s that mean?_

He furrowed his brows. _Why does that matter? It’s clear he only does this to break your heart. He_ knows _you like this. He_ wants _you to get conflicted. He thinks you deserve to feel the worst pain ever inflicted on a human being. He thinks the truth._

_I wish I could stop thinking._

Seán relaxed at the feeling of Mark’s chest rising and falling in steady, soothing breaths. He also liked the American’s soft heart beat, almost as if it was telling him something Mark didn’t have the chance to say. He tensed again, and he felt a touch stroke up and down his arm.

Seán couldn’t form any thoughts afterwards. It all became descriptions of subtle movements or calming motions. He felt his mind drifting off to a far place, where the static from the television wasn't heard and the feeling of Mark hugging him close on the couch vanished into thin air.

———————–

Seán woke up late at night. The room was cloudy and gloomy, and it had contrasted how his house actually looked like. His eyes fully opened, taking in the scene. There, he sat alone on the couch. No inviting arms around him; no warmth to comfort him from the cold that resided deep in his bones. He was just heart-breakingly, mind-wrenchingly alone.

The TV was on, inviting Seán with a gray static that he stared at, mesmerized. It called his name, but he tuned it out to focus on the small shapes the screen created.

_Seán…_

It seemed call him louder than before, his name taunting, louder and louder, each time the static dared to speak his name.

_Seán…_

_Seán…_

_Why are you alive?_

_Seán…_

_Seán…_

_Why don’t you just die?_

_You know no one would miss you. You’re pathetic. You aren’t special. The people you think are your friends wouldn't care. They could replace you in a second. They_ are _famous. They can find someone just like you in an instance. You don't stand out. What are you to them anyways? Nothing. That's what. Because you_ are _nothing. You’re not attractive. You're repugnant. No one thinks you're handsome. No one calls you handsome. Anyone who does doesn't mean it, and you know it. You fucking know better than to think you're actually worth something. And maybe you think you're special because you have fans, but those fans aren’t there for you, they're there because of your channel, and the only reason your channel is there is because of Mark and Felix._

_Face it. You're nothing, Seán. Just go kill yourself and stop wasting your time._

Seán looked away from the screen, hoping the voices would fade away. Instead, they yelled and screeched insults to his head with no remorse. When his vision adjusted to the dark, he held back his curses and focused on the dark figure sitting beside him, back facing Seán. _Mark_ , the Irishman guessed, and he scooted closer to the American as a response.

“Mark?” asked Seán. “Are you…?” his voice faded to a whisper as he heard his friend mumble a sentence.

“Mark?” the blue-eyed man repeated. “What are you saying?”

Seán strained his ears to listen to Mark’s words. When they came back again, Seán understood.

“How could you?” Mark whispered, the words coming across Seán so quietly, yet it was enough to make the Irishman’s heart beat quicker.

Seán’s throat choked up on his words, his questions, and his answers. Seán’s mind raced for an explanation to what Mark could be speaking of, but they didn't seem to add up. He tried gulping down the anxiety that was building up in his chest, thinking of what he could have done to make his friend so angry.

_Plenty of things. You mess up so much. You’re mean, rude, and inconsiderate. You take everything for granted. You're stupid and can't do anything right. You_ never _do anything right. I mean, look at you! You're a stupid YouTuber that couldn't even get a decent credit in college. You rely on people, who laugh at you only because you're stupid, to feed you. Yet most of your followers would probably ditch you once they find someone better to watch, which will be soon. You don't have talent. You’re lucky you even have people liking your videos, but people barely stand you. What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't deserve shit. You fucking cut yourself for attention, and_ still _don't realize that others don't give a fuck about if you wanted to die or not. Mark probably thinks you're pathetic. Who wouldn't? You're stupid, fat, and ugly. You're the only person that doesn't deserve anything good in this world. No one likes you. Not even Mark. How could he?_

It seemed ages had passed when Seán had finally mustered out, “C-could I what?”

“You _know_ what I mean, Jack!” Mark spun around, anger on his face in a clear sign of his furrowed brows and frown. Seán, taken aback by his friend’s anger, instantly blamed himself. Mark quickly softened, “How could you cut yourself?”

_Oh, no._


	6. Regress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watched miserably as Mark walked out the door without another word, leaving his friend crying on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regress— verb  
> rəˈɡres/  
> 1.  
> return to a former or less developed state.
> 
> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been revised for no reason.

“Cut my——?” Seán stopped, panicking. His heart sped at a dangerous pace, and his palms became slippery with sweat. “Mark, it was——”

“I thought you were better than that! Ugh, you——!” Mark stood up, storming upstairs.

“Mark! I can explain!” Seán ran after him, tears threatening to make their way down his cheeks. _How could I? What the fuck is wrong with me? Now, Mark must think I'm stupid… What if he’s gone through the same shit, or even worse? He_ has _gone through worse, hasn't he? He must think I just can't handle anything. Or that I’m just being pathetic… I'm so stupid. I don't even deserve Mark, whether he hates me or not. I never deserved him. I don't deserve anything. I wish I was dead._

He was out of breath and on his knees in front of Mark. “Please,” Seán begged. “Don’t leave me. I promise I won’t do it again. I won't, I won't, I won’t! Just please,” he sobbed, “don’t leave me alone again.”

Seán hadn't gone through this much pain before. It hurt his head, and his eyes wanted to gush out tears he’s held back all this time. His mouth wanted to pour out his flaws and malfunctions, hoping it will convince the American to stay, to _pity_ him. His chest threatened to implode on itself, because Seán couldn't catch his breath. It was just inhale, inhale, inhale; as if his body couldn't will itself to keep breathing correctly. Seán didn't seem to breathe _enough_ air, though, because his lungs felt empty and his chest tight. He was sure this was what dying felt like.

“You know what,” Mark hissed, looking down at him. “I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you, but God, you are so pathetic! Why the fuck would you cut yourself? That’s so stupid! It won't _kill_ you! Even _I_ know that! You must just be doing it for attention, huh? You don't even deserve help. Why the fuck are you scared of dying? There’s nothing around _here_ for pieces of shits like you, you pathetic cunt. And the worst thing about it is that you don't even have a bad life! You're whining for no reason! There are people out in the world who suffer and here you are, decent job and house, and you're cutting yourself! No wonder you lose all your friends! You're a coward. You're afraid of living, yet it seems you're afraid of dying too. You know what? I'm tired of your bullshit anyways. I don't know why the fuck you want me to stay! I don't care. Kill yourself for all I care. At least you’ll finally be doing something right for once.”

Seán sat on his knees, feeling pathetic and worthless. Tears streamed down his cheeks from repentance. “But, Mark…”

“What? You thought I cared? Because I fucking don't. You're such a pussy, Seán. Here you are, crying over me. Get a fucking brain, you annoying fuck. No one likes you. Now do us all a favor and just die.”

“Mark,” Seán cried again. “‘m so sorry…” He watched his former friend turn to pack up his things. “Please!”

Mark packed up faster than expected, and before Seán could notice he ran out the door, the Irishman following behind to stop him.

He watched miserably as Mark walked out the door without another word, leaving his friend crying on the couch.

He sat, back hunched over as his tears ran down his face and as his body shivered in fear and regret. Seán heard the whispers, louder than ever before. Screaming, crying, clawing their way into his brain, each asking:

_Why aren't you dead yet?_

Seán whispered each word as he took a long drink from his bottle.

“Why am I not dead? No one loves me. I'm a disappointment. I am a mistake. Why am I alive? Why should I have t’go through this pain? I have a choice. End it all and lift the burden from everyone else’s shoulders, or keep goin’ and ruin everything. I am a terrible human. I deserve nothin’ but death. A slow, painful death. For annoying everyone. For makin’ Mark feel like he has to go. For tryin’ t’kill myself. For cutting my wrists. For being different from others. For actin’ like I'm great, even when I'm not. For being bitter for no reason. For whining over my problems when I know other people have worse in life. I deserve t’die because I’m just… worse. I deserve to die because I was born like I was. And because I was born… at all.”

_Seán…_

_Seán…_

_Seán… Please, wake up… You're scaring me._

_“Seán!… Come on, wake up, and speak to me. Just tell me you're okay.”_

Seán opened his eyes wide at the sound of Mark’s voice. His eyes were blurry, but he could see Mark looked worried and almost near crying.

“Mark!” Seán sat up in a swift movement, relieved to see his American friend’s face again. “Please, I’m sorry,” he cried into his shoulder. “Please don't leave me. Ever. Please, please. I don't want t’be alone ever ‘gain. Please tell me ya aren't mad. Please.” He didn't know why he said what he was feeling, but he did know he felt terrified. Terrified of the possibilities. Terrified of the idea of being alone. Terrified of his dream—his _nightmare_. Terrified of the truth.

Mark rubbed Seán’s back, nodding. “It’s okay, Seán. What happened? Are you okay? What were you dreaming?”

The motion calmed Seán down, and he sniffed, his sobs quieting, but his breath was still quick. “I—I had a nightmare. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake up crying.”

“It’s okay, but… You weren't just crying… Seán…” Mark’s voice was uneven, but he paused. He shook his head, “Are you okay now?”

“I’m okay. Thanks,” the Irish said softly. He paused, placing his chin on the American’s shoulder. Seán slowly contemplated of telling the truth, but he instantly began speaking anyways, “I dreamt you left me.”

Mark nodded, rubbing his lower back. “Left you?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah. You got mad at me for something and ran out. I felt so lonely,” he said honestly.

“I would never.”

_He loves watching you suffer._

“You did in my dream,” Seán rebutted.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mark whispered softly.

_No. You wish you were somewhere else._

Seán paused. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” he pulled away, and Seán looked down at his legs, trying to distract himself from the topic hanging heavily in the room. “I’ll never abandon you and I'll never stop being your friend. You are amazing. And funny. And smart. And the kindest, most caring person I know. You are wonderful and I care for you, Seán. No matter what you think.”

_He doesn't care. He just feels bad because of your pathetic life. Like everyone else does. You're worthless. No one likes you. He doesn't like you. Since day one, he always thought you were weird. Now he only stays because he has to. You deserve to die. No matter what you want to think._

“You deserve the best. I care about you so much.”

_He lies. Why would anyone care about you? Just die already._

“Thank you,” Seán didn't look up. He let his head hang low as Mark rubbed his shoulder, feeling embarrassed and unworthy, and a bit exposed, as if he just lifted a layer of his skin for all to poke and judge.

The thing was, so far, Mark wasn't judging.

_He thinks you're a dumbass, though. He just doesn't want to tell you because he doesn't want to deal with you crying and attempting to kill yourself._

Seán grabbed the can of beer beside the couch, and despite it being less than cold, he opened and drank half of it down. Seán thought the frown that he saw out of the corner of eyes was of disgust. It made him drink faster.


	7. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minutes stretched into hours, but Mark was too happy to fall asleep. He could only think of the feeling pulsing through his body, able to hold and comfort Seán, which was something he doubted he could do. Here he was, able to rock his best friend to sleep, when his friend hadn’t—presumably—been able to in weeks.
> 
> His reality shattered when Seán started furrowing his brow in the dim light of the TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been edited.

The TV was quiet when Seán fell asleep. They didn't know the name of what they were watching, but it was an old black-and-white horror movie, with exaggerated screams and fake-looking monsters as the cherry on top of the cliché sundae. Mark smiled as the movie finally came close to its end, and glanced to Seán to make fun of the way some weird zombie looked like.

There, he saw Seán peacefully asleep, head hung back, soft inhales and exhales. His hair hung in his face, and the American had to resist the urge to move it aside. Mark couldn't help but to smile at the sight. The guy needed the sleep.

_I should take him to his own bed._

Mark nodded to himself at that and, slowly to avoid waking up his friend, wrapped an arm around his Irish comrade’s waist. Then, he pulled Seán closer to his own body carefully.

Surprisingly, Seán moved quickly against Mark’s body, his head landing softly on the American’s shoulder. Although, what happened next shocked Mark; he didn't know he was awake until Seán shifted his legs up on the sofa and snuggled into Mark’s chest with a sigh.

Mark gasped, tensing under the closeness of his warm body. It quickly comforted him to hear the soft breaths of his friend and be able to know he's sleeping. He rubbed his hand up Seán’s side, hoping he could do so without getting scolded. Mark breathed slowly, worrying that if he moved too fast it would shatter his beautiful, peaceful dream.

When Seán’s muscles tensed in Mark’s hold, his impulse was to wrap another arm around the Irishman and rub up and down any expanse of skin he could find. What had surprised him, though, was Seán actually calming down. Mark didn't know he was capable of that.

Mark relished the feeling of Seán’s body against his, focusing on his friend’s soft, long breaths against his thin clothes. Mark heard a soft whine between the steady breaths his friend made. He couldn't even imagine what made his friend so quiet, insecure, and sad. He hated seeing Seán like this, but there wasn't much he could do. Mark wanted to save Seán from what was hurting him, but he wanted his permission first. It wouldn't be fair to act like a hero that Seán didn't even want.

Minutes stretched into hours, but Mark was too happy to fall asleep. He could only think of the feeling pulsing through his body, able to hold and comfort Seán, which was something he doubted he could do. Here he was, able to rock his best friend to sleep, when his friend hadn’t—presumably—been able to in weeks.

His reality shattered when Seán started furrowing his brow in the dim light of the TV.

_Did I do something wrong? Is he waking up? Does he want me to let go? Does he not want… Me?_

Seán muttered something lowly, and even under the whispers of the movie’s actors, Mark understood.

“Mark… I can… Explain…”

Mark raised an eyebrow, _Did I just hear that correctly?_ He stared attentively, worried if he looked away that he would miss something important.

“Please… Don't…” his voice washed out by the television. “I… Won't…” muttered Seán quietly.

Minutes passed before he heard anything. Frozen in place, Mark twitched when he heard his name again.

“But… Mark…” Seán slowly moved his legs on the sofa, consequently making one of them fall on the floor.

The American watched his friend curiously, wondering what his buddy was dreaming about. He fancied the idea of having Seán dreaming of that time when he and him danced at a signing, or when Seán “proposed” to him in 2015. Mark chuckled at the thought. Suddenly the idea of Seán dreaming of him and Mark dating came to him, and Mark’s mind unwillingly fed the flames. He wondered if they would live together if they _were_ to date, and where they would live at: L.A. or Athlone. Mark found that he suddenly didn't care; he just wanted sometime with his best friend—in _that_ case, his boyfriend, the American realized. He thought of if they would get legally courted, or adopt kids, and have, well, sex. Mark wondered if Seán would be happy with Mark as happy as Mark would be with him.

When his wonders turned to hopes, he frowned, the fact that there's only a slim chance of Seán _ever_ thinking of him like _that_ breaking his heart.

A small gasp broke his thoughts (once again being Seán to break his thoughts). He looked at his friend, dreading to see Seán in shock of him laying with Mark, but instead found Seán… _Breathing weirdly in his sleep?_

His breath evened out for a moment, then Mark heard something even more unusual; Mark heard _crying._

The American couldn't see very well, but Mark was sure he couldn't see any tears on the Irishman’s face. He furrowed his brow, _What is he dreaming of? Should I wake him up? Will he get mad if I do? Did I do something in my dream? What happened?_

“Mark…” Seán’s arm moved, and he cried harder. “I’m so sorry…” Seán said louder, “Please…”

_What the fuck is happening? Did I do something or did Jack do something?_

Mark studied his friend’s face, hoping for any sign of him waking up soon.

Seán whispered something unintelligible. Mark tried to lean in closer to try to understand his best friend’s words. Awkwardly, he tilted his head to his right, his spine arching painfully to hear Seán’s words.

“… No one… loves me…”

Mark twitched at those words. Why would he think that? His fans love him. His family loves him. His friends love him _so_ much… _Mark_ loved him. Was that not enough?

_No, Seán… But I love you. You can't think that I don't. Please don't._

“… Why am I… alive? Why should I… have t’go… through this… pain?”

_No, no, please don't think that. Seán, no I love you._

Mark couldn't tell if he whispered that aloud. His heart ached at his words. Every syllable was ripping his poor heart smaller and smaller. Mark felt like crying. He didn't want Seán this way. He wanted Seán happy. Seán didn't deserve to want to kill himself, he was the sweetest, funniest, most perfect guy Mark knew. Mark loved Seán, and if he lost another person to suicide, he didn't know how much he could take it.

“… End it all… and lift the burden from everyone else’s shoulders… or keep goin’ and ruin everything. I am a… terrible human. I deserve nothin’… but death. A slow, painful death. For annoying everyone. For makin’ Mark feel like he has to go…”

Mark whispered, his heart beating faster and tears edging closer to his cheeks, “No, Seán, stop it. You're scaring me.”

“… For tryin’ t’kill myself.”

“Seán, please wake up. Please,” Mark’s voice cracked. “Please, I love you, just wake up, and tell me I’m going crazy and that you aren't…” his voice trailed off, and on cue, Seán continued.

“… For cutting my wrists…”

“No,” Mark choked out with tears, “please… It's a dream… Please…” He didn't hear Seán’s next words, but caught the last.

Seán cried, his whispers having turned to talking once again, “——I deserve t’die because… I’m just… worse… I deserve to… die because… I was born like, I was. And… because… I was born at all.”

“Seán… Seán… Seán… Please, wake up… You're scaring me.” Mark shook his friend violently, worried that he might just not wake up. Mark knew that was irrational, but sometimes those irrational thoughts made his way through with his disbelief. “Seán!… Come on, wake up, and speak to me. Just tell me you're okay.”

Mark’s throat choked up on him, worried. What should he do? He felt sick to his stomach, and his eyes red from the tears he was holding back. He slipped out of his place from under Seán and sat in front of him, facing him.

All of a sudden, Seán opened his eyes, locking eye contact with Mark. The Irishman’s eyes were clouded and puffy. His breath was quick, but Mark was relieved he had responded.

_Is he going to talk about it?_

“Mark!” In the blink of an eye, his buddy was crying into his shoulder, and Mark was tempted to cry with him. “Please, I’m sorry! Please don't leave me. Ever. Please, please. I don't want t’be alone ever ‘gain. Please tell me ya aren't mad. Please.” He sniffled, and Mark frowned. _I would never leave him._

“It’s okay, Seán. What happened? Are you okay? What were you dreaming?” Mark rubbed Seán’s back in an attempt to calm him down, nodding into his friend’s head to show he was listening.

Seán calmed down, his crying softening to the point where even his breath was a bit slower, and he felt the green-haired man’s heartbeat in his chest through the palm of his hand. He stuttered, “I—I had a nightmare. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake up crying.”

“It’s okay, but… You weren't just crying… Seán…” Mark tried to explain. He didn't know how to put “ _You were talking in your sleep about how you tried to kill yourself_ ” into their conversation, but he was sure he would get to it.

_Put it off till later. No one wants to be interrogated when they're crying._

He shook his head, remembering to respond. Mark simply asked, “Are you okay now?”

“I’m okay. Thanks,” Seán said in a tone that sounded like he was used to hearing that question. He put his chin on Mark’s shoulder, which didn't bother Mark, he was just happy Seán wasn't crying anymore. After a long pause, the blue-eyed man said softly, “I dreamt you left me.”

Mark nodded, hoping Seán couldn't see the confusion on his face. “Left you?”

“Yeah. You got mad at me for something and ran out. I felt so lonely,” Seán explained.

“I would never,” he said with a small smile.

“You did in my dream.”

Mark’s smile faded. He murmured, “I’m here, aren't I?”

Seán paused for a while. Mark twitched, hoping to look at him in the face and wipe away the tears on his face. Before he could, Seán added, “Yes. Thank you.”

His tone broke Mark’s heart somehow.

“Don’t worry,” he pulled away from their embrace gently, looking at his friend closely. Seán stared down to his leg, his dark green hair shadowing his beautiful eyes and his once common smile. “I’ll never abandon you. Never stop being your friend. You are amazing. And funny. And smart. And the kindest, most caring person I know. You are wonderful and I care for you, Seán. No matter what you think.”

Seán still didn't look up.

Mark tried to keep his smile wide and to keep the tears from coming out. “You deserve the best. I care about you so much.”

Seán stayed with his head lowered as Mark reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “Thank you,” Seán said flatly, his voice hoarse.

Mark frowned.

Seán leaned down to side of the couch and grabbed a beer. Mark frowned even more, a bit worried about Seán’s alcohol problem. _What if it gets out of hand?_

Seán glanced to him, and drank faster.

_Guess what? Seán doesn't like you._

Mark sighed quietly, looking away. “I gotta take a piss.”

“Okay.” Seán said quietly, setting aside his beer.

_He only set it down when you were gone._

Mark stood up, quickly making his way down the hall and to the restroom, then skipped right through it and went to his temporary bedroom. He walked in and found his pills on the bedstand, and—taking a few in hand—swallowed some down.

_I’ll get better at keeping my motherfucking schedule next time._

Mark walked back, went into the restroom, did his business—washing his hands, of course—then walked back to the couch, where Seán stayed seated.

Mark smiled, “We should go back to sleep. It's still really dark out.”

Seán looked to the ceiling as if in thought. He then looked to Mark, “Okay, _mom_ , I'm goin’.”

“Well, son, it's only good if you wanna grow up big and strong like your dad,” Mark rolled his eyes and pulled the light Irishman to his feet.

“Are you my _dad_ too?”

“Please, son, call me daddy.”

Seán snorted, punching Mark playfully in the shoulder.

“Can ya sleep with me, oh great lord and savior, Daddy Mark?”

“Hmm… Only for a few bucks.”

“Not _that_ kind of sleep!” Seán laughed.

Mark grinned. _I love his laugh_. He chose not to delve into that thought.

The Irishman continued, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck, “I meant just watch me. Just if I have a nightmare.”

Mark scratched his chin in thought, “Never been _paid_ to watch you sleep, but okay. By the way, next time you have some weird sex kink you wanna try out, don't ask your best friend to do it. You're just lucky I have an open agenda and am a proud pan——”

“Woah, woah, Mark,” Seán laughed. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, I’ll give you it for free. But just for tonight.”

“Okay, _daddy_ ,” he put strain on that last word, and Mark hoped he hadn't stepped a boundary by accident.

They made their way to Jack’s bedroom, and sat in bed together. Mark shut off the light and laid still, before making sure Seán was asleep to turn on the lamp light.

As Mark sat up in Seán’s bed, he glanced over to his friend, who was sleeping soundly in his state of comfort.

“Poor guy,” Mark muttered to himself. He studied Seán’s face, which was pale and thin with sickness.

_Maybe I should help him. Slowly. I can't force progress. The most I can do is be here for him. He just doesn't want me to be here for him. Am I not good enough?_

The thought caught him by surprise, and the YouTuber found himself dwelling on the topic more.

_I'm not good enough, aren't I? I'm not a good enough friend for Jack, and now he just wants me out of here. No. Damn it, Fischbach, I thought we agreed; positive thoughts. Let's not talk about ourselves. We need to focus on our friend. He needs us._

Mark decided it was best to wait for Seán to ask. He wouldn't want to annoy his friend. He knew how it was like when people read too much into his actions.

_He’s_ cutting _himself. How can you misinterpret that?_

The American sighed, and patted his friend’s hair. He looked so peaceful when he was sleeping… When there was nothing on his mind to worry or believe in.

A smile crossed the green-haired man, and Seán shifted his head closer into Mark’s touch.

Mark continued stroking his hand through Seán’s hair, brushing some of it out of his face with his thumb. He admired his best friend’s beauty—but despised using the word that seemed so feminine in this situation—and smiled back. Mark scooted his body further down in the sheets, and laid beside the thin Irishman.


	8. Hurricane Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @pilotstille for the idea that is sort of presented, but will be explained in the next chapter.  
> As of 10/31/17, this chapter has been edited.

Seán laid quietly, but he was dying inside. He couldn't hear much but the voices. Everything else was nothing but a dull ring; _there_ , but _not there_. He wasn't sure why, but there was a warmth surrounding him, slowly calming his nerves. But it wasn't enough.

The Irishman wasn't asleep. If he _was_ asleep, he would have been plagued with these terrible nightmares. He wasn't even _half_ -asleep. Yet he wasn't awake. If he was awake, he would be having the nightmare that is his life plaguing him. If he was awake, Seán would see Mark, the silver lining to the dark cloud overhanging him.

Was he dead then?

Seán felt a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, wanting to sigh in disappointment—but couldn't. _No Mark…_

_Mark doesn't want to see you. You're a clingy little bitch. If you were dead, he would be celebrating now. Face it. He doesn't like you and he never will._

Cold suddenly washed over him, and his thoughts silenced for a moment. It was a sudden difference in feeling—the warmth and the cold. He wanted it back. It lingered in his system, and beside him… But he didn't want it beside him. He wanted it closer, unable to leave and constantly comforting him.

_You don't deserve comfort._

Seán tried moving towards the warmth, unable to try to wake himself up. He heard soft noises, something that sounded like murmuring and shuffling. Then, he heard his own heart.

It was beating fast, and hard, and thinking about his vital organ like that made it worse. Seán heard something else. _Is that… Me?_

Heavy breathing, whining like a dog’s, and the feeling of his heart beating in his stomach.

_Great, I'm dying in my fucking sleep._

The muttering got louder. He wasn't sure if it was him or someone else. _Who would that someone else be?_

_Mark, you dumb fuck. Who else?_

_Mark! Why is he still here? I thought he was just watching me until I fell asleep. Maybe he just came in to check on me._

_Or to see if you were dead. Then he'll kick your dead body._

Seán wanted him right beside him, hugging him close. He didn't want to wake up.

Seán tried to move his lips, to spell out the word Mark, to say the American’s name before he left.

The warmth overtook him quickly. It was sudden, and it burned. It scorched his skin, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, he felt vulnerable. Seán wanted to push away the American, before the heat overtook him and he was nothing more than the pile of meat hanging over a fire.

_That's all you deserve._

But before he could will himself to wake up, Mark murmured; the words clear as day to the Irishman.

“It’s okay now, I’m here,” was whispered into his ear. The warmth suddenly cooled, and the touch once again comforted him. His breath slowed to nearly silent, and his beating heart to a near stop. A breath hit the back of his neck, causing a shiver to run down his spine. His lips were so close to his skin.

_“There we go, it's fine now. Don't worry, Seán, I’m here for you.”_

_God, I wished you liked me._

Seán felt himself move without wanting to. His arm lifted off the bed without permission. He tried moving it back, but couldn't.

“… _Why?_ ” Mark murmured in disappointment.

_Was I supposed to hear that?_

_What am I doing? Is Mark… Moving me?_

The cold slowly came forth, and Seán could only imagine what was happening. Was he being carried, or inspected? _Maybe I am dead._

“…wakes up.” Seán caught Mark saying.

_Not dead. Yay_ , Seán wish he could roll his eyes.

_Wait, if he grabbed my arm… Oh, no. Oh,_ fuck, _no!_

Seán was worried the other was seeing his scars. What would Mark think of him then? Seán tried listening better to Mark’s voice, hoping his muscles work enough to open his eyes. _How do I even wake up?_ The man wanted to scream. He wanted to shout for Mark to stop and most of all, Seán wanted to cry. What if Mark saw his scars? His cuts? What would he think of him then? Would he leave?

_Yes, he would. Why should he stay? To take care of you? Not to mention have to deal with your little crush on him… God, why the fuck would he ever like_ you? _You're weak. Pathetic. Disgusting. Stupid. Annoying. Even_ he _wonders why you're not dead yet._

_**“You must be doing it for attention, huh? You don't**_ **deserve _help.”_** The words rang around in his head, and Seán couldn't help but believe them.

_Maybe I am doing this for attention. I want something I don't deserve. But God, if this is attention, I don't think I want it anymore. I feel terrible. Guilty. Broken. But I deserve this. For all the people I've disappointed. And all the people I've annoyed. And all the things I've ruined. All the bottles I've drunk. All the burdens I've made._

Even in his semiconciousness, he felt the tears pricking at the sides of his eyes.

_I'm sorry Mark._

He breathed faster once again.

_I hope I die._

_**“You thought I cared? Because I fucking don't.”** _

_Mark doesn't care about me. He wouldn't care if I died. I don't deserve his attention. For all he cares, I could be hanging on a rope right now and he wouldn't feel anything. Because I don't deserve anything. I'm worthless. I don't deserve attention or help. Or to live. I deserve to have Mark hate me._

_“I care about you, Seán.”_

Seán wanted to cry. He loved Mark so much. He didn't want to see him have to fake his concern for Seán. He wanted Mark happy. He wished he could just let Mark go, so that he could finally be happy with someone else. _Because he deserves so much better than me as a friend._

_**“Do us all a favor and just die.”** _

_If he cares about me, he can't know. He can't know I cut myself. I have to push him away. Before it's too late. For both of us. And if he doesn't like me, no harm done. He'll be happy with my demise._

Seán imagined what was happening at the moment. He imagined Mark sitting beside him, crying because the Irishman had a few gashes on his arm.

Mark attending his funeral.

Mark crying himself to sleep.

Mark pointing a gun to his head.

Seán basically pulling the trigger.

The blue-eyed man’s ears heard the American’s deep voice whispering something incomprehensible.

_If he doesn't like me…_

_Of course he doesn't. Who could love you?_

_I would go through so much pain. All alone. But I don't deserve anything better._

_I can't let him find out._

So Seán screamed… _loud._


	9. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Until, eventually, Seán stood before him, wearing a sweater, jeans, and a smile. Mark frowned. “Wait——”_
> 
> _He switched the safety to off, quickly, waiting for Mark to move or speak again. A thumb worked to cock the barrel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 11/01/17, this chapter has been edited for things.

_He didn't know where he was. He just knew he was drowning._

_He was suffocating under the weight of an entire ocean, his lungs were filled with water, and his chest was tight under the pressure. The life was being crushed out of him, but Mark couldn't scream. No, he couldn't scream or kick or cry even if he wanted to. He simply sank to the bottom, his eyes searching for light from above._

_But as he hit the ocean floor, there was someone there with him. God, Mark felt as if he hadn't seen a human face in ages._

_When he took in the figure beside him, though, it wasn't relief that consumed him, it was worry._

_There, Seán’s body lay, contorted in pain. His mouth was open as if he was yelling, but there was no sound to be heard. Mark frowned, clawing his way closer. Something pushed him further down, and his efforts failed and became nothing but small movements from his fingers trying to inch their way to Seán._

_Still, Mark tried, and he pushed his body into the sand and dug his way—little by little—to Seán, who had all but noticed Mark beside him._

_Mark struggled under the weight of whatever was holding him back. The sand dug under his nails and water filled his mouth as he tried calling out to Seán. The water tasted strangely metallic._

_Seán tore at the skin on his arms with his nails, never calming down. The water around him turned red with the blood he let escape, and his eyes shut tight._

_Mark drained all his strength to make it beside the man, but he couldn't even lift a finger under the pressure of the ocean. He tried speaking but his vision blackened and his mouth filled with blood, making him gag._

_Instead, Mark clutched at the other man’s arm, pulling it away from himself and into Mark’s hold. The man immediately stopped and his eyes snapped open. They were bloodshot and if it weren't for the ocean, Mark would have thought they were filled with tears. Mark struggled to say something, anything that could have either varied between_ Save me _or_ Let go and save yourself. __

_He never thought of the words_ You're not alone. __

_Mark felt the blood run into his mouth as he yelled, “Save yourself.”_

_Suddenly, Mark’s world went dark. The noise of the water rushing into his ears was gone. He still couldn't breathe, and the strong copper taste didn't leave his mouth. He felt a thin layer of sweat all over his body, and his chest was tight from his ragged breathing._

_Then, Mark found himself in a room he didn't recognize, a dim light only illuminating a dirty mirror. His mind wandered with the possibilities of what could be seen through the mirror, and his gaze never broke with the dark shadows shown through the glass. Mark stepped closer, the mirror peaking his curiosity. He stepped again, and again, until he was sure what he saw was his_ actual _reflection._

_In the glass, he locked on with his own gaze, and the first thing Mark noted was the tired glaze of his eyes. His eyes looked hollow, dead, and far-off, as if he didn't trust himself to look into his own eyes and talk. The dull brown of his irises made him look like he lost the passion that used to burn so brightly in him—reduced to nothing but smoke and ashes. Then, Mark looked to his own hair, messy and tangled, as if he spent days ripping it out from worry, anxiety, and decreasing sanity; his plain and boring clothes; the wavering stance of his body as it struggled to stand with the pull of a million voices wanting to drag him into a void. He studied his smile, which was plastered on his face despite his pain, and the way it didn't reach his eyes—something he hadn't caught in a reflection for a long time._

_But Mark wasn't surprised to find a gun pointed to his reflection’s temple._

_He was surprised when he noticed a few things. The eyes lacked its usual tears, the smile lacked the usual paranoia, and his body lacked the twitch in his fingers—which always_ begged _to pull the trigger. And Mark knew why._

_He was finally hesitating his death._

_Mark placed a hand on the reflection, which did nothing but step back in fear._

_Mark smiled sadly at his figure, “It’s okay. I'm sorry. I know you were hurt. But just put the gun down and go back. Go back to how you were. Go back to who everyone expects you to be. Go back and stop being a pathetic idiot.”_

_His arm wavered. He gathered tears in his eyes, and as if tears were blue, his eyes turned the blue that matched the sky, the ocean, and ice itself. The hair morphed and blurred to something else. His body thinned and his facial hair altered itself, his eyes rounded, his clothes changed. Until, eventually, Seán stood before him, wearing a sweater, jeans, and a smile. Mark frowned. “Wait——”_

_He switched the safety to off, quickly, waiting for Mark to move or speak again. A thumb worked to cock the barrel._

_Mark’s heart stopped, “Seán, no, wait!” His heart shattered as he saw the figure of Seán twitch, tears streaming down his face. His face was full of fear, but the determination in his eyes was enough to make Mark continue to fight. The tears, the crazy smile, the twitch—Seán had everything Mark used to have. Except, those eyes. Those eyes_ had _a passion. A grim resolution to end his fucking life._

_The American stepped forward quickly, then pressed his hand on the reflection and pushed towards him, willing himself to break through the barrier and manage to stop Seán. Or at least try. Anything was enough than to just watch him die._

_Mark pushed and struggled, but the mirror did nothing to move. Seán didn't even try to run away, he cried with the barrel of the gun pointed to his head as Mark cried and yelled and screamed for the Irishman to stop and fucking think._

_His weak, wry smile seemed to say “Where do you think thinking has gotten me?”_

_“Please!” Mark begged, tears streaming down his face, the ache in his chest increasing. “Don’t do this to me.”_

_Mark pushed farther, ducking his head down and shutting his eyes tight as he stretched the mirror like rubber. “Fuck, no…” he muttered in despair as he clutched at the rubber as if it would break. “Seán…”_

_“I’m sorry,” Seán said. Mark didn't even want to look. Mark simply just wished for his own gun as heard the shot._

“Mark?”

Mark shot up off the bed, his heart pounding at the sounds being emitted beside him. There was heavy breathing, small whines, and twitches, once in a while the man was murmuring his name or apologies or random words. Mark placed a hand on the Irishman’s forehead, feeling no heat coming from it. As he looked over to the space beside him, he panicked at the sight of his friend’s distress. The American tried very hard not to shake the man awake, but instead set a hand on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. Unsure if it worked, Mark decided to lay beside him once again, biting his lip and shutting his eyes shut in dread. He didn't touch him anymore though. He didn't want to freak Seán out.

“Seán? Can you hear me?” he said, unable to hide the panic from his voice. The smaller man whined as a response, shifting closer to Mark in his sleep.

Mark blinked. He didn't know what to do. Should he comfort him or wake him up? If he were to wake him up, Seán would freak out. If he left him asleep, he would continue to have a nightmare and would wake up panicking. Mark settled on comforting the man as best he could; in no way could Mark just _leave_ him there. So, Mark takes Seán’s shaking body in his arms, hoping it would all get better. _Like it used to be._

At first, Seán’s body went rigid in shock, or disgust, maybe. Mark couldn't guess. His arms pulled the Irishman closer to his own body, but loosened the grip when his friend whined louder. He waited for another noise, anything that could let Mark be sure he knew that he wasn't wanted. When the shoves and pushes didn't come, instead, he gathered his courage to tell the man it was okay, that he was here, when he knew well the other thought differently.

Then, Seán calmed. At least Mark _thought_ he did as the man’s shoulders untensed, his breathing slowly turned back to normal, and the small whines became nothing but sighs.

Mark himself let out a sigh of relief, his eyes closing. What he could give to protect Seán every day, to hold him close enough that his own head could bury itself in that hair, in his neck, in the sheets, and in his clothes.

“There we go, it's fine now. Don't worry, Seán,” Mark muttered into the pale man’s skin. _I’m here for you._ The brown-eyed human didn't know if he said the last part aloud or not. All he knew was he never wanted to let go.

Mark thought back to when he used to play video games with Seán, and he would send in a video of his webcam and Mark would simply watch the bright smile he gave when Mark made a joke or did something stupid. He wondered if he was hurting back then as he was now. If he hadn't, then what had ruined the man before him to be nothing but… Broken? _Is that the right word?_

_What could have led to his self-harm? Is it bad?_ Mark stopped at the last thought. _Was_ it bad? He didn't think it would be anything more than a gash, or multiple thin lines. It would still worry Mark either way, but how often did Seán practice this habit? Did he stop recently or continue? _Did he do it when I was here?…_ Mark felt guilt hit at him hard. How could Mark not have noticed if Seán was sitting in the bathroom with his wrists slit? What if he had done worse and killed himself? Mark wouldn't even have noticed. _God, how could I be so useless?_

Mark sat up slowly, making sure Seán didn't start freaking out again as he leaned over.

Alarms screamed in his head that this was a terrible idea, that it was a breach of privacy, that it wasn't fair because Seán didn't ask for help.

_You didn't ask for help either, but you wished for it every night you went to sleep._

_Shut up._

Mark wrapped his hand around the man’s arm, pulling up the sleeve, slowly tugging it away from his body, and lifted it up to the light from the lamp he had forgotten to turn off. He inspected the back of it, then paused.

_If I turn it around and he wakes up, he'll never forgive me. This is so fucked up. I can't. I can't. I can't. But… I have to._

Mark twisted his friend’s wrist, scanning over the skin and instantly wincing. “Oh, God. Why?” he said, concerned over what could have led his friend to do this.

Close to his wrist, Seán had two thick gashes across his arm horizontally, both open, but old. They looked like the kind of cuts that would lead to visible scars. The cuts were wide and had skin torn like jagged flaps, and it sent a dagger through Mark’s heart. There were lighter cuts scattered throughout his wrist, and a few white scars that were barely visible against his pale skin. Seán didn't deserve that… This… He deserved nothing but love and happiness and care. How could Mark have done nothing about this?

A voice in his head told him it was unreasonable to blame himself, but he ignored it as he imagined Seán dragging a blade down his arm to leave the one scar that stood out above the rest.

It was twisted and looked painful. The gash was thicker than the rest, and it was red and the skin around it was purple-blue from it being swollen. It was still open and looked like it would never heal. Mark wondered when this cut was made.

 

“I really hope he doesn't wake up to find me like this,” Mark found himself thinking aloud. He just didn't want to talk to him about it like this.

Mark hadn't noticed the tears coming from his eyes as he frowned. “Why would you do this? I—I… I wish I was here to help. I'm sorry, Seán. I wished I could have helped you. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry.”

Mark rubbed tears away from his eyes, pulling the man’s sleeve back up and just holding his hand in his. The American looked to the floor, wondering how he should talk to his friend about this. He couldn't just lean over to him when they're watching TV or playing video games and say, “ _Hey, I know you cut yourself. Why?_ ”

Minutes passed without any actions from Mark, but in his thoughts, he failed to notice Seán twitch and whine in his sleep. He didn't want to hear Seán in pain anymore.

His entire body jumped when he heard his best friend let out an ear-splitting scream and sit up, his eyes snapping open and meeting Mark’s in dreaded harmony. Seán’s eyes mirrored his American friend’s in multiple ways; the puffiness, the redness, the tears. The tears almost made Mark sob again, but he put the sadness aside and asked nervously, “Are you okay?”

Seán froze for a moment. He began looking around—to Mark, then to their hands, which were still intertwined tightly as if the grip on each other was the only grip they had on their happiness. Mark loosened his grip in uneasiness; what if Seán didn't like that Mark was holding his hand? To his surprise, Seán returned his grip, and evened out his breathing. Priorly, Seán had breathed raggedly, his chest shaking strangely, his eyes wide with confusion and shock. Now, he slouched towards Mark, grabbing both of the brown-haired man’s hands near him. His eyes drooped closed, nearly seeming as if he was to pass out.

“I—I… Don't know.” The man seemed worried, his eyes reopened and darting back and forth between his arm and Mark.

“Why are you crying?”

Seán looked into Mark’s eyes, “I had a nightmare… Again.”

Mark furrowed his brow in concern. “Are you okay now, at least?” he squeezed the man’s hand.

Seán stayed silent. His face was now blank from any emotion, and he didn't break eye contact. “Why did you move me in my sleep?”

Mark stiffened, the question so unexpected to him it stopped his heart. He flinched, “Uh…”

Seán frowned and furrowed his brows, letting go of Mark’s hands and crossing his arms. “Mark. _Why_ did you move me in my sleep?”

“I, uh… Seán. I…” Mark looked away, hoping an excuse would come to his head.

Seán shook his head, “Don’t fucking lie to me, Mark. Don't you _dare_ try t’bullshit me. What the fuck were you doin’?”

“I was…” Mark’s throat was knots. “Ugh, okay,” Mark sighed. He gulped in nervousness, then looked into the Irishman’s unwavering gaze. “Earlier last night, when you woke up crying…” he paused. Can't he lie? “You were talking in your sleep.”

The man’s blue eyes flinched. Seán lowered his arms. He seemed to understand what Mark meant, since he looked away and bit his lip. The man didn't say anything for a few moments, until finally, “A-and… What… What did I say?”

The flinch Seán created made Mark regret his words, but he tried ignoring his pained heart. Mark cupped his hand under Seán’s. “You began by begging for me to do something—which I don't know what it meant. Then, you apologized, even though I had initially thought you hadn't done anything.”

“Then?” Seán pressed on, his nails slightly digging into Mark’s hand.

Mark could recite what Seán said—word for word—if he wanted, but he didn't want to feel hurt over Seán anymore. So he didn't. “Then you started saying how no one loved you, and asked ‘why am I alive?’ Then you were saying you were a terrible person that deserved nothing but death and that you were a burden to others. Which I totally don't agree with, and by then I was up and listening to you talk in your sleep, even though that isn't okay, I think.” Mark let the words spill quickly from his mouth, nervousness tapping into his system. “And then you said you tried to kill yourself and that you deserve to die,” Mark tightened his hold on Seán’s hand, pausing. “… Look, I’m sorry, I just didn't want to make assumptions before confronting you.”

“It’s not your fuckin’ life t’control, Mark,” Seán scolded.

_Ouch._ “Okay. I'm sorry. But before you do anything. Can I ask something?”

Seán stayed silent for a long time before nodding.

Mark sighed. “Seán, I care for you a lot, and I fucking hate seeing you like this. I want to see you get better, but before I can do that… I want to know, why?”

“Why what?” Seán blinked.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

Seán stayed silent. Mark waited patiently, running his thumbs over the man’s hands, staring into his blue eyes. He gave the man time, not wanting to press on.

“I’m—I’m not ready t’tell you. Please, Mark, can we put the topic off ‘til I'm… Ready?”

Mark nodded, a small smile forming on his face, “Whatever you want. Just know,” he raised Seán’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips against the skin, “I’m here for you. I really do care about you.”

Seán smiled, his eyes crinkling up slightly with the action. His cheeks were red, and he looked to the side as he muttered, “I know.”


	10. Punishments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All those times he had read people’s recovery stories of self-doubt and pain—of how _he_ had inspired them to open up and ask for help—yet there he was: sobbing into a drain as blood gathered out of him and ran down a hole along with his tears. _I'm so pathetic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda ruins any theme I wanted to build, but does offer a change in perspective. I have a lot planned for this so I'm sorry if it ever gets off track. EDIT: I am changing the title to a song lyric. I'm going to thank @At_the_moment and @Carimus both for contributing :D It means a lot to me! Although you won't be able to notice till a lot later, I'll be going to use their suggestions as chapter titles instead. Thanks! And er, enjoy.

Sean woke up comfortable. Although it was a bit stuffy with the excessive body heat, he _gladly_ preferred it over waking up cold and lonely like the countless nights before.

But then again, it didn't mean these feelings would last. He didn't deserve to feel this way, despite how good it felt. He deserved to cry, to curl up into a ball with pain aching throughout his entire chest, to have tears streaming down his face. He deserved pain.

His mood clouded quickly, and he felt cold, even wrapped in Mark’s arms. Even as the man murmured and stirred, and even as he heard his name.

 _He saw. He saw and now he hates you. He wants nothing to do with you. Great. He hates you. The one guy you cared about doesn't like you. Typical. You deserve that. That’s what you get. Just kill yourself. You've lost everything anyways. You shouldn't even be touching him. You don't deserve to have him in Ireland, practically begging at him to stay and comfort your every pathetic need. He's so much better than you, and with everything he's done, you don't deserve to even be_ seen _with him. You should have never been here to begin with. You're a mistake. You weren't meant to be born or to have as good of a life as you have now. You're worthless and no one loves you. No one's ever loved you. So why keep going? You're nothing but fucking trash and deserve what’s coming. You don't deserve Mark. Stop holding him back. He doesn't want you, when he can clearly have anyone else. Everyone’s better than you. You're **nothing.**_

Sean felt empty again. His mind always ran in circles like this, but now it chased him into a dark corner, where he couldn't function properly, or escape from the confinements of his own thoughts. The difference from his earlier feeling of emptiness, though, was that there was no ache to his chest; no lingering feeling of happiness that he couldn't grasp. There was a numbness rooted into his skin and his veins, flowing through his body like an anesthetic. But Sean was wide awake.

He didn't know if that was better or worse.

“Jack?” Mark grumbled sleepily. Sean flinched as Mark’s voice cut through the air. He couldn't bring himself to respond in any way other than that simple twitch.

“Oh, sorry, Jack, I must’ve forgot to sleep in my own bed… When…” Mark trailed off, eyeing his friend through a yawn. Then, the American stared longer than necessary, and Sean couldn't bring up the energy to feel uneasy at the lingering gaze. “Are you okay?” the words became more muffled than necessary.

Sean nodded instantly; the instinct springing onto him from months of the habit.

_Hadn't been necessary till now. Since Mark came. Since someone began to care._

_But he_ doesn't _care. Remember that._

“‘m fine, Mark. I swear.”

The Irishman caught the frown Mark made from the corner of his vision. He decided to reassure the lie further by staring at those deep brown eyes and giving his best, plastered smile. “I’m fine. I feel a lot better.”

_Except I don't. I don't feel better. I don't feel anything. I shouldn't feel good. Which means I am fine. I'm getting what I deserve. But I still don't deserve you._

_Why are you here, Mark?_ Sean wanted to ask. He didn't.

_He's going to push you over the edge. Just where you belong._

“You don't look better. You look dead, Jack,” Mark murmured through water. Or maybe it just sounded that way.

“Get used to it,” Jack hadn't meant to sound bitter or rude. He was sort of glad his voice came out flat instead of snapping in Mark’s face. “You’ll be seein’ t’is all day.”

Mark smiled softly, “You should smile. It looks a lot better. And I know you _can._ ”

_I'm sorry, Mark. I can't smile. For some god damn reason, I can't fucking smile now. I don't deserve to be able to smile. My smile is ugly, just like me. Even if I did smile, it would come out fake, or broken. Just like me._

_You're not broken. Why the fuck would_ you _be broken? Broken people **deserve** help because something actually **caused** them to be broken, but _ you _, you brought this on yourself. You don't deserve anything. You already have things other people don't have. You're whining for nothing. You're a pain in the ass. Especially with all those cuts. Just a fucking loser wanting attention. I mean, Mark already knows. He found out quick, and if_ he _found out, how long would it be before others did, too? Then what?_ Everyone _would hate you. Even Mark. He hates you already. He saw and he hates you. Isn't that perfect for such a pathetic person like you? The guy you pine over hating you. It’s breaking your little heart._

Sean shrugged, flipping onto his side and looking at Mark directly. His expression remained the same. “I don't find anythin’ amusin’.”

“Not even my life? Not my face? Not my bed-head?” his voice came a bit clearer this time. _Maybe it was just sleepiness, and not emptiness._

_Yeah, I'm fine. It was nothing._

Sean watched as Mark sat up, letting the sheets fall and pool around the American’s lap. His eyes wandered up the man’s build, and landed on——

A smile twitched the edges of his lips upwards at the silly way Mark’s black hair settled upwards like some sort of plant. It looked even _funnier_ when Mark posed as if taking a picture, making duck lips and raising an eyebrow. How could someone _not_ laugh at that?

 _God, I really don't deserve you as a friend,_ Sean wanted to say. He didn't.

Sean rolled his eyes, huffing out a small laugh. “Maybe yer bedhead. But t’at's it.”

“Just you wait, my friendly leprechaun. I’ll be here for an entire week. By February 13th, you won't be able to get me out of your head. Nor my bed-head. Wait—you won't be able to get my bed-head out of your head,” Mark giggled. “Aren’t I the funniest person alive?”

“Yer funnier on camera. But… Can’t wait t’see ya for an _entire_ week,” he said unenthusiastically, gaining a chuckle from the American. Sean’s mind quickly cleared. He brought himself enough energy to sit up, then regretted it as the room spun and he tilted too far to the side.

“Woah, you okay?” Mark frowned, setting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

_God, don't bother him with your fucking problems. Why do you have to ruin the good mood? You've done enough of that already with all your bullshit. Even being alive causes problems. You're such a fucking burden._

“Y-yeah… Just, sleepy.” Sean visibly flinched. _When can I learn?_

_Never. You can't learn when you're as low as you are now. You're such an idiot._

“You want some breakfast?” Mark asked. “I don't know if you know any good places around here, but I don't mind paying.”

“B-breakfast?” Sean said it as if it was a foreign concept instead of a vital mealtime of the day.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Food?_ Now? _I don't need food. I'm fat enough as it is and I don't need food I don't deserve food, and how could he think I want food of all things in the world doesn't he know I'm fat and it's gross to be me **already. I don't need food I've eaten and I'm fat and ugly and I don't deserve to eat or use up his money——**_

“Hey, hey, Sean… It’s okay. I think you could use the food,” Mark smiled. _God, his smile is so… So… Wonderful to look at._ The green-haired man let out a breath, and with that, all of his anxieties. The man’s smiles did wonders. “Look how thin you are! You're like a twig!”

_Twig is good. Twig is better than being fat and fat is what **I** am._

Mark poked Sean’s stomach, and Sean instinctively covered his stomach. “No touchin’ my blubber, Mark.”

Mark chuckled, poking again at an open spot. He then dragged his fingers lightly over Sean’s shirt, and Sean giggled.

“No!” Sean smacked Mark’s hand away, frowning. “No ticklin’!”

Mark grinned, “What about…" he paused, grabbing his phone from the bedside and spending a minute on it. Sean tried not to smack it out of his hands. Mark looked up and smiled mischievously, “Titillate?”

Sean raised a brow, “Wait, doesn't——”

Mark began to tickle him, running his hands over his stomach, around his neck, even under his arms.

Sean thrashed around—nearly kicking Mark multiple times—as he laughed uncontrollably, cursing at Mark and his childish ways of making Sean laugh. “F—fuc—fuck.. y—you, Mark!” he laughed, squirming under an interminable hold. “S-stop!”

Tears formed at the corner of his eyes from laughing, his never-ending giggles making his chest hurt from lack of air. _I probably look like such an idiot._

Finally, the tickles stopped, and he finally calmed his thrashing and breathed in gulps of air. “F-fuck, _Mark._ God. What… What the… _Ow!_ ” Sean wasn't actually in pain, but he felt he needed to say that to avenge his poor lungs.

“I told you a smile looked better. Feels better, too, huh?” Mark grinned. “Now, let’s go out to eat! I'll go shower and get ready and I'll meet you downstairs in a bit, alright? Shower, brush your teeth and hair—not with the same brush—make sure your videos upload, change, and decide where we're going. If you dare tell me we're not going anywhere, I _will_ Google it. You're eating today, _God damn it_ , even if it's the last thing we do.”

“But——”

“No butts, except your booty checking your stuff, and my booty getting in the shower,” Mark raised his chin, as if _daring_ Sean to disobey or complain again.

_You don't need to eat. Tell him that._

_No, no, he doesn't care. He'll let me get fat and then make fun of me._

_He wouldn't make fun of me, right?_

_Don't doubt it. He has and he is and he will._

_Well, maybe we can prove him wrong. We can get rid of the food after we eat it. Throw it back up. Straight into a toilet, so it doesn't affect us._

_Maybe…_

“——okay? See ya later, Jack,” Mark skipped off, waving goodbye. The scene reminded him of a schoolgirl skipping off to class on the first day of school, before she realized that school wasn't great, and before she began hating it.

After a few beats of hearing a door close, another door open, the shower run, and distinct humming—at least he thought it was humming; he never took Mark as a singing in the shower type of guy—Sean swung his legs off the bed and stood, slowly. As soon as he got to his feet, he dragged himself to his recording room, checked on his scheduled videos, checked some of his social media—which was blown up from days of neglect—and shut off his computer. He slowly walked out of the room to catch the guest bedroom door close, and Sean made his way to the restroom.

Before he twisted the doorknob though, a thought crossed his mind. What if Mark had seen some of the dried blood in the sink, or a used towel that Sean was too lazy to clean? What if he saw the blade in the trash? Or blood on the shower curtains?

_Guess that's 4 more cuts for your ignorance. Get in the shower and fucking learn._

Sean bit his lip, then spun around to grab his clothes, and broke a blade from his sharpener—as if he needed it. He didn't own any pencils, and if he needed any, he would buy a mechanical one. _And I said I would never do it again._

Sean really needed to learn. To learn how to control himself. To hide his habit better. To not make things worse.

There was no more hesitation, no more halting before walking into the restroom. Sean didn't have to think twice about this. He knew what he needed to do. He needed to learn. This was his punishment. For making Mark come to Ireland. For being lazy. For ruining everything. For every single spiteful comment on the internet. For every single hated action he's committed. For every stupid little thing he's done. He needs to do this. To learn.

Sean locked the door and turned on the shower, stripped himself of his clothes, and checked the temperature. _Cold._ Just how he needed it.

He wasted no time getting in, letting the harsh, cold water whip at his back and legs. He rinsed his hair and scrubbed at his body quickly, before blindly grabbing the blade from the edge of the shower.

His hands didn't shake. His heart didn't beat fast. He didn't fidget, didn't clumsily drop it; he didn't pause. Sean simply gripped the blade and opened his eyes.

He ignored the scars all over his body. In the softer part of his arms, the outer part of his arms. On his hands (which he was glad some had closed and faded to white), on his shoulders. Over his chest and stomach… so many on his stomach. Horizontal, tilted, deep and shallow, they all were scattered on his hip, on his stomach, on his thighs, and a few on the bottom of his feet. He remembered trying to walk with some of those cuts. It was painful, and he had left bloody footprints everywhere.

Sean took the weapon— _could it be considered a weapon if it would only be used to harm himself?_ —and dragged it down the side of his stomach, watching the blood drip under the pressure of the sharp edge. The cut was deep—not too deep, however, it _would_ leave a scar forever, but Sean didn't care. He needed to learn. It was a punishment. _That was for being lazy._

Another one on the inside of his arm, just like the other, except this one was so close to a blue vein that ran by the length of his pale arms. It stung, and bled, and the crimson red mixed beautifully with the white of his skin. _That was for being stupid._

Another one on his thigh, a bit more shallow due to Sean getting weak, and the water spinning down the drain mixing with blood making the Irishman nauseous. _It looks like someone died in here._

_No one’s dead in here. Not yet. But someone deserves to die._

The cut probably wouldn't leave a scar forever. It would probably heal in a few weeks. But that one was for ruining everything. Even though it wasn't deep, there was already millions of those kinds of cuts over his body, and Sean didn't think of stopping with one. He would do another cut some other day.

Five on his chest. For the comments he still has yet to prove wrong.

Reopening a cut near his knuckles, widening the gash further than it already was. _For every mean thing I've done. And that's a lot._

Sean scowled at his wrist. On the side of it was simply two open cuts, but he planted the blade there and pushed. The blade cut easily, and he bit his lip down to avoid crying at the pain. His skin had torn like paper. Blood _poured_ out of the wound, and Sean was glad. He didn't deserve to live. And if he was still alive, he didn't deserve to live it in peace.

_That was for every stupid thing you've done to Mark. For ruining Mark’s life with your own. For being such a martyr, even when the world didn't ask for one. For being alive and burdening Mark, when **he didn't ask for a clingy fan, for a worthless follower, for a picky beggar, for a stupid, inconsiderate bitch that NO ONE likes.**_

_Shut up._

_**He didn't ask for you. So why are you still here?** _

Sean nearly collapsed onto his knees, but hugged his knees tight to his chest as blood still fell onto the tiles under him in tiny droplets of red ink. He didn't know if the water in his eyes were from the shower or tears. All he knew is that the pain in his chest came back. His eyes stung.

_So much for a distraction. Now it’s a punishment._

_It's a punishment you deserve._

Sean felt sick. His entire body itched and stung, his stomach was weak and his throat was tight with his uneasiness. He felt like such a liar. All those times he had told others that self-harm wouldn't help, that suicide wasn't an option, that they should seek help and help would be there for them; it was all twisted and manipulated to apply to everyone but him.

_Because everyone is better than you. How many times have we gone over this? Didn't you know repetition is bad for you?_

All those times he had read people’s recovery stories of self-doubt and pain—of how _he_ had inspired them to open up and ask for help—yet there he was: sobbing into a drain as blood gathered out of him and ran down a hole along with his tears. _I'm so pathetic._

He coughed a sob, hoping Mark wouldn't knock on the door and that Sean would have to speak. His voice was a wreck of emotions he couldn't quite pin down. Sean shut his eyes, leaned against the cool wall, and let the water stab at his abused skin.

_Maybe I can pass out in here._

_And what? Mark would come in at_ some _point and take you to a hospital. Then, you would have to tell everyone what's wrong. And no one wants to know that their hero cut himself._

_What hero? You're no one’s hero. You're nothing but gum under everyone’s shoe; useless and a pain to get rid of. Mark wouldn't **even care.** All he would do is ignore you. Why should he care what happens to you?_

Sean sighed. _What a distraction it is when it makes things worse._


	11. A stupid fucking author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't get your hopes up. I don't want to crush them when you get this email.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This author's note has been edited as of **Friday, September 8 at 11:10 P.M. (CDT), 2017**.

Dear reader,

Fuck. I hate posting these. Sorry for the inconvenience. I'm currently running out of energy to type, so forgive me for being incoherent.

**Skip ahead for a choice.**

2:30 A.M. Wednesday, September 6, 2017 (CDT) Time

I haven't updated this in months. That's not okay, but I'll give you petty excuses so you'll hate me more:

**1) I've been editing this story.**

I have. I swear on my beloved stuffed penguin—Oli Odd Wait-For-It Marine the Penguin Whale Biologist—that I have. Ever since I posted my last chapter, I've been slowly reviewing my story and editing chunks of it so it'll sound better. (It doesn't.) I have gone through all of it and decided I hate my last chapter. I had even said it's gonna ruin my theme and I regret posting it. The reason it's taking so long to edit is because I like _some_ parts of it, but I fucking hate  _it_. It's hard to work around that, you know.

**2) It's so difficult to write this story now.**

Jesus Christ, my writing style changes. It's irritating me. Okay, look, before, I used to be able to write this as easy as I could wake up in the morning, but I can't anymore. I just fucking can't. It's hard to write _anything_ anymore. My other story is pre-written, and I can't update it without feeling like I'm falling behind. The stories I'm writing have gotten slow progress; I have to take a week-long break until I have inspiration. I don't know why, maybe I'm having writer's block but it just pisses me off that I literally can't do anything right anymore. And sorry, I'm writing my thoughts. That's not good, is it?

**3) Life suuuucks.**

The final reason (but not really) is that life sucks. We all know that. But life has been particularly more sucky (actually depression mostly gave way to stress and anxiety for me), and nowadays I'm busy. I don't have much energy to do anything.

But if you've read through all of this, good for you! I'm gonna give you two choices. Whichever the majority picks **by Friday, September 08, 2017 8:30 P.M. (CDT)** , I will do.

**_A) I will post the already written but unreviewed (like, seriously unreviewed—it doesn't even have formatting) chapter that fits with the current plot._ **

**_B) I will edit the previous chapter and rewrite a new plot, which might take longer (a lot, longer)._ **

**_C) I will kill myself._ **

~~_C seems like a good option for me, how about you guys?_ ~~

~~~~Anyways, see ya.

P.S. Sorry once again. I wasn't even going to post this but I decided to do so anyways. Also, septiplier away!

\----------

**11:10 P.M. Friday, September 8, 2017 (CDT) Time**

Votes have been tallied. Any votes made after won't be counted.

There were 10 comments (honestly that was more than I expected). Of those 10 comments, half of those (5), did not name a choice. Those go into separate category called _Whatever._  

Here we go:

**2/10 votes — Choice A... I will post the already written chapter.**

**3/10 votes — Choice B... I will post a reviewed chapter, which might take a while to write.**

**5/10 votes — Unnamed vote. Do whatever.**

Take in mind whatever letter I saw you put was added to the vote and if it wasn't a letter, it was assumed. If you think your vote wasn't used or that it was used incorrectly, comment again (I get notifications anyways). Or maybe you can email me at fvck.this@yahoo.com or something. I don't like clutter though.

Since the majority of the votes weren't _really_ votes, I'm just going to use the others. For those who chose A, I'm sorry. **The vote goes out to Choice B.**

I don't know when the chapter will be updated, but I'll make sure it's soon. When it is, this one will be deleted.

Sincerely,

~~The Breakfast Club~~

 

Nah, not really

P.S. Isn't that movie so cool?

**Author's Note:**

> If you find errors, don't hesitate to correct me. I really want to get better at writing.  
> Please, seek help if you are struggling with something. This fic is only here because I'm stupid. You are so much better than some simple words and phrases and my stubbornness.  
> — fill_empty_space_here :)


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